In Some Other Time
by coinoperatedbecca
Summary: AU. "I'm always wishing I was walking that road, it's something I hold."


He hadn't awoken until the warmth of the sun beamed through the window and spread itself across his face. He kept his eyes closed, allowing the light to engulf him, spreading its warmth throughout his body. He couldn't recall a time where he had felt more at peace than at this moment.

For a few moments he laid there, still as a statute, soaking in the tranquility of the moment.

It wasn't until he felt something scurry across his cheek that caused him to move. Quickly, thinking that a spider must have managed to find its way in the house, he brushed at his cheek with his hand, only to find nothing.

Then he heard the giggles.

"Ah," he said gruffly, sitting himself up as he examined the room. "I think there is a little spider in here."

He was met with the sound of stifled giggles.

"Hm," he thought aloud, rubbing his chin. "I think I can hear it, that pesky little bug." Slowly, suspecting that the culprit was hiding under the bedframe, he hoisted himself out of the bed. "I must squish it before it scares mama to death."

"No, dada, no!" A small voice said from under the bed (it was her most common hiding spot, after all) as he was greeted with the sight of a mass of blonde curls. "I'm not a spider!"

He grinned down at the little girl, still clad in her nightgown, her cheeks pink and her hair a mess. "I'm not quite sure, missy," he said as he scooped her in his arms and swung her over his shoulders. "You sure did _feel_ like a spider."

"Not me, not me!" she laughed as she squirmed in his arms. "It was my eyelashes, not me!"

He couldn't help but laugh as he plopped her on the bed. His wife had recently taught the girl to give "kisses" with her eyelashes, and ever since then that was all the child did. As he began tickling her, her squeals and laughter grew louder. "Mama! Mama!" She squealed. "Mama help!"

The pattering of footsteps grew louder in the hallway. "Miss Gracie," his wife's calm voice said from the doorway. "I thought I told you we were going to let dada sleep in today."

He grinned at the sight of the woman. Her face and dress front were covered in flour, and her blonde hair sticking in all sorts of directions. "And why is that?" He asked curiously.

"It's your birthday!" Grace screeched as she lunged toward him, consuming him in the biggest hug her four-year-old arms could handle.

"Oh well _thank you_ ma'am!" He exclaimed, scooping her up. Still giggling, she buried her warm face into the crook of his neck. He glanced at his wife. "You look like a ghost, old gal." He smirked.

She rolled her eyes. "You're the devil himself."

-o-o-o-

When he walked into the kitchen, he was greeted by the sight of a birthday cake. It was lopsided and the layers didn't quite match, and the icing was melting off. "I tried," his wife admitted as he tried not to laugh. She wasn't known for being the best cook, but the admirable thing about her was that she at least tried. "I don't think it helped that your daughter woke up at half past four and has been a wind of energy ever since."

"I did the icing," Grace said proudly, making him laugh.

"I suppose she won't be much of a housewife either," he smirked.

"Well, I wouldn't want her to be." His wife replied.

When he met his wife, he never actually imagined marrying her. She was dead set on traveling the world alone, having adventures and meeting as many people as she could. At first, he thought that suited her. She had a kind soul, but one that was wild. She was attentive and caring, but never imagined herself being the typical southern woman—getting married, having children, hosting teas and fulfilling the other responsibilities that wives did. She was meant to be free, to go wherever life took her.

Evidently, life took her to _him_.

They had met at a party when he was home in Alabama one summer from school. He had watched her try her first cigarette and promptly vomit from inhaling the smoke. She was hardly embarrassed, though, despite the fact that half of her dinner ended up on his shoes. That was the first thing he liked about her—she was unapologetic and wasn't meek like other gals he met. She was headstrong and had the ability to move past things unlike other women who had the tendency to dwell on their previous mistakes.

It could hardly be said that either of them fell in love with the other immediately, however. Most of their time spent together was spent bickering and arguing about anything and everything. However, every time he came home from Alabama, he found himself gravitating towards her, as though he was trapped by her magnetic energy.

One day they had been smoking (she finally learned how to do it properly) and talking about bourbon when all of a sudden, her cheeks became red and she grew angry at him. "What is your problem?" He asked impatiently, crossing his arms and glaring at you.

"Why don't you just kiss me already?" She had shouted, and almost instantaneously she had pressed her lips against his.

It was then he realized he loved her.

Two years later they married in the small church that he had been baptized in. He remembered thinking that the entire day had been some sort of weird dream that he didn't want to wake up from. But each morning when he awoke and he saw her lying next to him he had to remind himself that this wasn't a dream, it was reality. Shortly after, they moved to Tennessee where he began his practice while she thrived living in a bigger city than the one in which she grew up. They were happy.

Two years after their marriage, she had a stillbirth. They had named him Charlie and they had him buried close to their home. When she could finally bring herself out of bed, she would go to his grave with tiny flowers and would cry while he threw himself into his work, shutting himself off. While her grief had been open, he hid his from the world. For a brief moment, he thought that perhaps this would ruin them, tear apart the dream that he had cherished so much.

But two years later Grace came.

When they were greeted by her cries, the two of them couldn't help but to cry as well. She was small and pink and squirmy and made noise _all of the time_. Her presence warmed them and consumed them, filling them with a joy that they didn't think imaginable.

And now she was four. She was a mess of wild blonde curls like her mama and had her father's sharp facial features (though they were much cuter on her). Everywhere she went she sang, her small shoes clapping against the hard wood floor. She talked to anyone and anything, even an empty room. She tortured their cat. She brought her family immense love.

"I want to give him his present!" Grace squealed, flinging her arms towards her mother. "I don't want to keep secrets!"

Oh, and she was terrible at keeping a secret.

"She's had to hold this in for three whole days, dada." His wife said, chuckling as she retrieved his gifts from where she had hidden them (she hides them in the same place every year, though he would never admit to knowing that). One was smaller, neatly wrapped and bound in simple paper, while the other present was large and haphazardly wrapped, covered with the scribbles of a toddler. "I suppose you could tell which one is from whom." His wife laughed.

Grace took the presents from her mother and nearly hurled them at her father. "Open! Open!" She cheered.

Carefully, he took the neatly wrapped gift and examined it. "I think I'll open this one first," he declared as Grace gasped. She had her lips pursed tight, as though she was trying with everything within her not to say what her gift to her father was. Delicately, he peeled the wrapping and opened the box, and was presented with a silver-plated fountain pen.

"People are going to think I'm some sort of hot-shot now," he said, holding the smooth pen between his fingers. "I'm going to lose my image."

"It's better than the plastic one that explodes every time you use it, love." She responded.

"I suppose people will be glad to be able to actually read their forms," he remarked. "Thank you from both me and them."

"Mine, now! Dada!" Grace chanted, hugging the gift to her chest.

"I wonder what this could be," he mused, taking the gift from her hand. Jokingly, he shook it. "I wonder if I can guess…"

"Please, dada, please!" She begged, pressing her hands against her cheeks. "I can't wait!"

"I suppose I can just open it," he said. "But all of the fun is in guessin'…"

Grace made a stifled noise as she covered her mouth. "You're killin' the poor thing, sweet. Just open it!"

Grinning, he peeled back the paper, and was greeted with a book meant for students about the human anatomy. "I picked it!" Grace chanted. "I picked it by myself!"

"She did," his wife confirmed.

"I adore it," he said, trying to conceal his laughter. "It's perfect." Grace ran towards him, hurling herself into his lap. He kissed the top of her head. "Love you, Miss Gracie."

"I love you forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever…" She said quickly, rocking back and forth in her dada's lap.

-o-o-o-

Grace had fallen asleep before they could even have breakfast. She had curled up on the floor next to the cat, her small hand gripped onto the cat's tail. "Poor Rose," his wife said, observing the scene. "Grace absolutely tortures her."

"Yet she always comes back for more," he remarked, taking a sliver of cake off of the plate. It wasn't fully cooked, but he dug his fork into it anyway. "She's like her mama—she's a torturer but her victims always come back in the end."

She scoffed. "Jack Finch, you are the devil!"

He beamed at her. "Jean, come here and give the birthday boy a kiss."


End file.
